Competition: Marital Dialogue
Lucy Vickery presents this week's competition
In Competition No. 2685 you were invited to submit a marital dialogue in verse.
The scene set was one of interspousal disharmony: a domestic hell peopled by a familiar cast of nagging frigid wives and long-suffering, emotionally disengaged husbands. Not much ammo there for the pro-marriage lobby, then. Tim Raikes, Bill Greenwell and Josephine Boyle were only narrowly eclipsed by the winners, printed below, who are rewarded with £25 each. Max Ross nabs the extra fiver.
Shall I compare thee to a summer day?
No, no — I need to sleep. No time for play.
Then, dear, make me immortal with a kiss.
I told you I’m too tired. Don’t take the piss.
You walk in beauty like the night, I think.
Please go to sleep. You’ve had too much to drink.
When I am old and grey, you may regret.
You’re there already, my forgetful pet.
You can be cruel, my phantom of delight.
At three a.m I think I’ve every right.
And so untender. Loving would be nice.
It would, perhaps, had we not been there twice.
But there are pleasures still upon the shelf.
Then go away and find them by yourself.
So must I sleep alone and dream in pain?
Oh, very well. God, here we go again!
Max Ross
I saw Penny Devlyn in Fagley’s today.
Buying a dress shirt for snobby old Ray?
Oh, Ray’s not that bad — he can be very nice.
I don’t deny that, but it comes at a price.
They’re sailing to France in the summer again.
In that case, my darling, we’re flying to Spain.
I’m quite fond of Ray, dear; don’t be such a churl.
And haven’t I noticed? Just watch it, my girl.
They’d run out of Stilton, dear, so I got Brie.
Any old cheese, love, is okay with me.
I looked at the lampstands but nothing seemed right.
I really don’t care, love, as long as there’s light.
And upstairs in ‘Fashion’ I bought some new undies.
The Saturday night kind, or sensible Sundays’?
All lacy and see-through and silky, in peach.
Then it’s once more, as Shaky said, into the breach!
Gerard Benson
Love, have you seen my blue pyjama pants?
Our marriage once had sparkle and romance.
The blue ones. Are they still in the machine?
I sometimes dream of all that might have been.
What’s that? The ones I’m looking for are blue.
My thoughts return to when our love was new.
My blue pyjamas ... What’s the matter, dear?
I sometimes wonder if you know I’m here.
I know you’re here. I asked you if you knew...
Why don’t we make love like we used to do?
What, when we lay together hours and hours?
On silken sheets bestrewn with scarlet flowers...
And us together naked, sans pretence...
And fumes of joss-sticks overpowering sense...
And soft caressing tunes on mandolins...
Yes! Yes! But first – could you put out the bins?
George Simmers
We have to talk — are you awake?
Why don’t you answer? Must I shout?
You woke me up — for goodness sake
What do you need to talk about?
I’m knackered and it’s half past two,
When morning comes we’ll sort things out.
If that’s not typical of you
Procrastinating to the end
And then equivocating too;
You weren’t sleeping, don’t pretend
I couldn’t hear the slightest snore.
Which clearly doesn’t prove a thing:
We’ve been there many times before.
Now tell me why you’re worrying,
Just spit it out if it won’t keep.
Stop arguing — I want to sleep.
Gillian Ewing
‘The form was here but isn’t now.’
‘I haven’t touched a thing.’
‘I didn’t say you had, but how
Does something just take wing?’
‘Another pair of eyes might be...’
‘How delicately phrased!
These two are well equipped to see:
They don’t seem bottle-glazed.’
‘You say it’s lost, I think it’s not,
So let me have a look.
It’s possible that I could spot
What you might overlook.’
‘All right — but when you do, I’m sure
That your next words will be—’
‘Is this what you were looking for?’
‘ — In just that tone of glee.’
W.J. Webster
My god, look what the bloody cat dragged in,
A middle-aged accountant soused in gin.
Now, darling, do be fair. I can explain.
I had to lunch this client — What, again?
The fifteenth time this month, or am I wrong?
And every lunch is more than four hours long?
That’s — Thanks, Miss Vorderman, but don’t forget
At least my schmoozing keeps us out of debt
By paying for your clothes, your Jimmy Choo’s,
Your gym — But first your trollops and your booze?
Oh, stop the nonsense. That’s all in your mind.
So sorry, dear, I hired a man to find
The evidence. It isn’t looking good.
I see. Divorce would halve our wealth. So would
A new Ferrari help to ease your cares?
Well, now you’re talking sense. Get up them stairs.
Basil Ransome-Davies
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